


February 14th

by distractionpie



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: 5 + 1 times, Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, POV Bard, POV Third Person Limited, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 20:12:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3353798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distractionpie/pseuds/distractionpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Bard and Thranduil enjoyed each other's friendship on Valentine's Day, and one time they did not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	February 14th

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd and likely a little rushed in places because I literally wrote this for Valentine's Day _on_ Valentine's Day.

**1.** There was a certain type of person one expected to see in low class bars on Valentine's Day, and tall, well-groomed blondes in designer suits weren't it. Though, from the look on his face, this was a man who had likely picked the bar based on proximity and the lack of cooing couples rather than on any of its own somewhat dubious merits.

"One glass of your most expensive dry white," the man said. Bard offered a half smile to the man. Drinking alone on Valentine’s Day was the sign of a man who was likely past cheering up, but he might be open to commiserations. When he poured the drink he left the bottle on the bar.

The man raised his eyebrows. "Shouldn't you store that ready for when it's next ordered."

Bard waved his hand, gesturing to the near empty room. Other than this blond man and himself there was nobody present but two guys at the other end of the bar who had both been drinking whiskey solidly since Bard had opened. He should probably cut them off soon, or at least try to sell them some crisps or something.

"Which you think will likely be me," the man concluded. "You may be correct."

"A good bartender learns to predict orders," Bard said, leaning his elbows against the bar.

"Settling in?" the man asked.

Bard shrugged. "People seem to have a thing about spilling their guts to bartenders," he said, "And I'm sure your story is more interesting that theirs," he added, nodding to the whiskey drinkers.

"Not particularly," the man said, holding up his left hand to draw attention to a wedding ring. "My wife passed some years ago, but this is the first time this day has passed since my son has left home, and I found that without the distraction I was more strongly effected than anticipated."

Bard nodded with understanding. "My own wife passed on, though my three are still at home to keep me from dwelling."

The man glanced to Bard's hands. "You don't wear a ring," he observed, "Part of the moving on process?" he asked, with obvious disdain.

He'd pawned it not six months after Ingrid had died, in order to pay for the tuition that their children had needed to catch up with the school they'd missed while grieving, but that was more than he was going to share with a customer. One look at this man's suit gave him the impression that the man wouldn't understand anyway. "Next glass is on the house," he offered with a shrug, wandering down to the opposite end of the bar to top of his other clients' whiskey.

 

 

 **2.** It took Bard a few moments to place the man sat at the bar in front of him. He was definitely familiar, but it wasn't until the man placed his order, "One glass of your most expensive dry white," that Bard recognised him from the same date the previous year. A widowed single father like himself and a generous tipper, just interesting enough for Bard to have remembered who he was. He poured out the glass and once again left the bottle on the bar, watching the man's face to see if there was any recognition there.

"I see that the service here is as good as I recalled," the man said. Bard smirked.

"Thanks," he said. "Although I make no promises as to when I'm not on shift. If you get Alfrid you're doomed."

He wasn't sure why he was saying this; it wasn't like the man seemed likely to be a regular, given that it had been a year since Bard had last seen him."

"Indeed?" the man said, "Then perhaps I should get your name, so that I can make sure to choose the right time for my next visit." He nodded to where the shift roster was pinned up behind the Bard, although Bard would be surprised if he could actually read it from where he was sitting.

Bard gave his name and the man nodded. "Then I need not be too selective in my visits, since it appears that you're scheduled more often than not."

Bard's surprise was clearly visible on his face because the man laughed lightly. "A touch of long-sightedness," he said, "It has its uses."

Bard nodded, and then had to step away as one his other customers, a young woman in her twenties burst into tears at the other end of the bar.

The girl explained through gulping sobs that she'd been visiting from out of town to surprise her boyfriend for Valentine’s Day, only to find out that the young man had found himself alternative company. Bard persuaded her to call a friend in the area who'd agreed to come and pick her up. Once she’d calmed down, he gave her a bottle of water on the house and wandered back over to where the blond man was sitting.

On a whim he said, "It appears you have me at a disadvantage, you have my name but-"

"Thranduil," the man interjected. A strange name, but somehow it suited him and it would be useful to know if the man followed through on the return visits he'd implied. "You spent a good deal of time speaking with that young lady, is she ill?"

Bard shook his head. "Just young and emotional. A long distance relationship gone wrong and her not being that much older than my Sigrid. Somebody is coming to pick her up."

"Still, nice of you to take the time for her, it seems stretch of your professionalism."

Bard shook his head. "Not really. Anybody can learn to pour drinks; the trick to being a good bartender is in knowing when to cut people off." On busy nights half the difficulty of his job was in keeping watch over the clientele, but he considered it a point of pride - and if anybody did drink themselves sick it would be him cleaning up.

"Clearly I should return on a busier day to see you in action," Thranduil joked.

Bard laughed. "Clearly."

 

 

 **3.** Bard wasn't all the surprised when Thranduil walked into the bar on Valentine's Day. Over the past year the man had become a semi-regular customer, rarely going more than two weeks without coming in during a quiet period to drink their most expensive wine and talk with Bard. Bard had begun to look forward to these meetings. Thranduil was far more interesting that most of the bars other patrons, who were largely there for the sole purpose of getting as intoxicated as possible as cheaply as possible. Between working and caring for his children Bard had little time for socialisation, and speaking with Thranduil was a pleasurable addition to his routine. The man had opinions on everything from politics, to art, to sports, as well as that apparently the bar's most expensive wine was in fact decidedly unimpressive. Given that, Bard wasn't sure why Thranduil kept returning. His best guess was that the man also enjoyed a break from his usual routine; although doubtless his life was far more glamourous than Bard's.

This was the third Valentine’s Day in a row Thranduil had spent at the Bard, but as the man sipped his wine Bard noticed that his left hand was unadorned. Where Thranduil's wedding ring had sat for as long as Bard had known him there was now only a band of bare skin a shade paler than the rest. For a moment Bard wondered if it was a good idea to ask, but in the end he voiced the question.

"I shall always love her," Thranduil answered, "But I have increasingly found myself swayed by those who would have me believe that it would be better to seek out some new company, even if only for casual encounters."

"Well if you're looking for casual encounters, there'll be plenty of desperate young singles in the clubs tonight," Bard remarked.

Thranduil shook his head, but the corners of his mouth were turned upwards. "Selective casual encounters," he amended. "I doubt there would be anyone to interest me among desperate club goers. And I've no interest in the young. Anybody closer in age to my son than myself is of no interest to me."

Bard nodded. He'd had more than one divorced acquaintance take up with somebody much younger than them, and it rarely ended well.

Still, he knew well enough how hard it was to lose a partner, for Thranduil to have finally made the decision to begin exploring his options was a huge step. He lifted another glass from behind the counter, and poured himself a small amount of wine, lifting his glass towards Thranduil.

"To the future," he toasted.

"To the future," Thranduil agreed.

 

 

 **4.** Bard wasn't sure why Thranduil would bring his date to this particular bar for a date. Even if this woman found bars romantic, surely it would be more fitting to go to The Dragon or, given that Thranduil hated the guy that ran that place, The Royal.

He’d had a bottle of Thranduil’s usual wine ready to go, but apparently the man’s date preferred some particular red that he’d had to fetch from the cellar. He was pretty sure he now had cobwebs in his hair.

He knew it was irrational to be annoyed about how disdainful Thranduil's date looked when he himself thought that this bar was a terrible choice of location, but it seemed like poor manners to be so obviously scornful. She should enjoy the company she had and not be so concerned with their surroundings.

Certainly, it didn't bode well. The woman might have been pretty if she didn't look quite so much like she'd just smelled something truly foul, rather than the bar's general aroma of slightly stale beer and disinfectant. If her clothes were anything to go by she was likely successful, although Bard wasn't sure about the choice of what he'd have firmly categorised as business wear for a date in a bar. But whatever. They were talking, and oh, he was right, when she laughed she was almost appealing, if you were into the sort of thing.

He focused his attention on the bar's other patrons. For all that he and Thranduil had a built up a friendly rapport over the last two years he still needed to be professional and sticking his nose into their date certainly didn't fall into the category. They talked for over an hour and they seemed to be getting on well, clearly Thranduil's date had managed to overcome her initial displeasure at the date's location. He fetched a second bottle of the woman's preferred wine from the cellar and hope that they would stop after two bottles, because that was all the bar had in stock of that wine - it was hardly to the taste of their usual clientele. He tried to be as unobtrusive as possible as he placed the bottle on the table, resisting the temptation to try to catch Thranduil's eye, and proceeded back to the bar.

"You!" the woman cried, snapping her fingers. "This bottle is sour."

Bard felt an instinctual flash of anger at being addressed to rudely but pushed it down, letting nothing show but the practised calm he'd achieved through almost twenty years of service industry work. He turned around. "I'm sorry to hear that ma'am," he said, walking back to the table. "We don't have any more of that particular wine in stock, but I'd be quite happy to fetch you your preferred alternative."

The woman scowled at him. "On the house I presume."

Bard balked. His boss had been cracking down on the practice of giving out drinks on the house, and if he agreed it would be likely coming out of his own pay, but as much as he didn't like this woman's manner he liked less the idea of ruining Thranduil's date. "Of course, ma'am," he said, "What would you like?"

"Whatever your next finest red is," the woman said, with a put upon air. Bard frowned, trying to work out what that would be. They weren't a wine bar, and while they stocked a few expensive bottles it was likely whatever he had to offer would be a considerable downgrade.

"Of course, one moment please," he said, headed back to that accursed cellar for the third time, scowling when he hear the woman announce her intention not to tip before he was even out of earshot.

When he returned the atmosphere at the table was tense, and he hurried a little in pouring the wine, in the hopes of getting away and hopefully letting Thranduil, who had thus far been watching Bard's interactions with his date impassively, get things back on track.

That was not to be.

The woman took a single sip of the wine and prompt threw the glass in Bard's direction. He stepped sharply to the side, the glass smashing on the floor, but some of the beverage splashed onto his shirt. That would be a nightmare to get out.

The woman was ranting about how Bard had cheated and insulted her by offering what she referred to as such plebeian wine and Bard replied through gritted teeth. "We are not a wine bar ma'am, that is the next best in our selection. If you would like to make a more specific order-"

"I would like to leave," the woman spat, rattling the table as she stood up. Thranduil followed her as she exited and it took Bard several moments to realise that neither of them had paid. Three bottles of their most expensive wines all coming out of his paycheck - he winced, there would be more than a few extra shifts and skipped meals in his future it seemed.

He set to cleaning up the mess, and had just finished sweeping up the last shards of the broken glass when the door swung open and Thranduil walked back in, wallet in hand.

He looked Bard up and down, and held out a small stack of notes - enough to cover all three bottles, plus a generous tip. Bard immediately felt bad for assuming the worst of a man that he'd come to think of as a friend. Of course, Thranduil wouldn't simply skip out on his bill, and even if he had, his tips over the past two years no doubt amounted to more than he'd have shorted them.

Bard took the money, placing it all into his pocket to sort later. "I'm afraid this mightn't have been the most ideal choice of bar for your date," he remarked.

Thranduil scoffed. "I rather suspect it was my choice of date which was the issue. I must apologise for her conduct. It seems that one can work with a person for years without getting a true understanding of their character."

"If you want to know what a man, or a woman I suppose, is like, take a good look at how he treats his inferiors, not his equals," Bard recited.

Thranduil frowned. "You are not her inferior," he protested. "Her rudeness was intolerable."

Bard shrugged. "She certainly thought of me that way. And she's hardly the first rude customer, the perils of customer service I'm afraid."

"Still, that is certainly an accurate saying," Thranduil said. "Your own coining?"

 Bard laughed, shaking his head. "The estimable J.K Rowling's," he corrected. "My three adore Harry Potter, although I suppose I can forgive you, Legolas might have been a little old for the craze."

"Too old maybe, but that never stopped him from asking me to take him off to midnight releases," Thranduil replied. "They simply never drew my interest."

Bard nodded. "Fair enough. My three left me little choice. Tilda was hooked on the stories before she was old enough to manage reading them on her own, but the library had the audiobooks. Although I must say there was something about the narrator that I always found off-putting." He finished wiping down the bar. "I take it you aren't planning to go chasing after your date?"

Thranduil scowled. "I prefer not to spend my time with people clearly so unworthy of it."

Bard nodded. "Well, your date may be ruined, but your day needn't be." He pulled the bottle he'd set aside for Thranduil out from the cooler beneath the bar.

Thranduil smiled.

 

 

 **5.** “No date?” he teased, remembering last year’s disaster. He had a bottle of Thranduil’s usual wine

Thranduil shook his head. “And you’re working,” he pointed out. “Do you no longer date at all?”

Bard shrugged. He’d been out with a few people over the years but few had lasted long. “Mutual compatibility, and a willingness to accept my job,” or rather, his lacking financial situation, “and my kids' approval, it’s a lot to ask.”

“Still,” Thranduil remarked. “I am sure that there are those who would be willing if it were you doing the asking.”

Bard laughed. “If you say so,” he said. “But I asked after you? I’d imagine you attract far better options that I, and yet it seems you are going to find yourself passing the day in the company of myself and a bottle.”

Thranduil sipped at his wine. “That is not such a bad option,” he observed.

“Well not with wine that fancy, I suppose,” Bard joked. “There is no one?”

“There is perhaps something which might pan out,” Thranduil said, and Bard felt his stomach drop at the thought of enduring this shift without Thranduil’s company. “But I would not press too quickly, and I enjoy your friendship.”

“And I yours,” Bard agreed with a smile.

 

 

 **1.** It had been a gruelling morning, and Bard was glad of the fact that Percy would be picking up the afternoon shift as part of the man’s desperate attempt to distract himself from the fact his partner was out of town dealing with parental illness. Drunken vomiting before noon was almost always an ill omen.

The traffic was hellish and his bus crowded so it was a relief to get home and collapse on the couch. Tilda was at a classmate's birthday sleepover party and wouldn’t need collecting until morning, and both Bain and Sigrid were out with friends and would likely not be back until the evening. It was with some annoyance then, that he roused at the sound of the doorbell.

Grumbling he pushed himself up and unlocked the door, opening it with the full intention of being short tempered with whatever salesperson or preacher was calling on him.

“You were absent from the bar,” Thranduil said, “But your colleague suggested that you were engaged in no pressing matters this afternoon, so I thought I might call upon you here.”

Bard paused, rapidly shifting tracks, and then nodded. “Of course, of course, come in,” he said. In truth he wasn’t sure he particularly wanted Thranduil in the house. The man had kindly driven him home on one occasion when Bard had remarked that he wished he could claim overtime on the hour and a half he was to spend waiting at the bar for his bus, so he knew that Bard lived in a small home in a less that great part of town. It was the interior, however, the truly revealed how tight things were raising three children on one paycheck with little help from the government, and he felt strangely embarrassed at the idea of Thranduil seeing such things.

But Thanduil’s face gave away no reaction as Bard led him through to the cramped living room, gesturing for him to sit in one of the mismatched armchairs.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Bard offered, falling back on good habits, but Thranduil shook his head.

“I thought that I might offer you a drink for a change,” the man said, raising his hand to draw Bard’s attention to the bottle in it – the same wine that Thranduil always ordered from the bar. Of course, the meagre contents of Bard’s cupboards was unlikely to be to Thranduil’s taste.

“Thank you,” he said, instead, departing for a moment to fetch two glasses from the kitchen, thanking the heavens that he owned two wine glasses at all.

He returned and allowed Thranduil to pour the wine, taking a sip before asking, “I don’t mean to be rude, but I do wonder what brings you here. You’ve never visited me at home before.”

“For the last five years I have had the pleasure of your company on February fourteenth, I admit I was surprised at your absence today. I had wondered if you had a date, but your co-worker-”

Bard took an uncomfortably large gulp of his wine in his surprise and spent a few moments fighting not to splutter. “No, no date,” he confirmed. In truth, he hadn’t realised what the date was. He wondered, in light of this new knowledge, if it was indeed friends that Sigrid and Bain were spending the day with.

Thranduil’s lips seemed to twitch upwards, but it was hard to tell as the man took another sip of his wine. “I find I am glad of it,” the man said eventually. “I have enjoyed your company on this day in past years, and would continue to enjoy it, if you would be amenable to such a thing.”

Bard frowned. Continue to… did Thranduil mean only on this day, or in future years also? The former seemed obvious by the man’s presence, the latter…

“This is a day in which many people chose to pass in the company of their significant others,” Bard pointed out. “Surely you would not wish to commit yourself to my company on such an occasion at the expense of future companions.”

There was a moment of silence, and then Thranduil said, “Perhaps I should be clearer. I am very much aware that February fourteenth is a day conventionally spent with romantic partners, and after long consideration I have concluded that I would have you for the role, if you are willing?”

Bard blinked, trying to parse the implications of Thranduil’s sentence. It truly did sound like the man were asking him for a relationship. “I too have enjoyed the time we have spent in each other’s company,” he replied, “But I wonder at your choice, when we have seen little of each other outside of the bar.”

Thranduil nodded. “I understand. After so many years I feel that location has little bearing, but,” the man paused, shaking his head slightly. “I think perhaps it is best that we have had this conversation here, instead of at your workplace. I would not like to make you uncomfortable there.” Thranduil rose. “I shall take my leave of you.”

“I would prefer you didn’t,” Bard said, before he could think. Thranduil paused, watching him curiously. “I am…” Bard began, searching for the words, “You suggestion is not unappealing,” he said finally. “I merely wonder… there is a whole year between this February fourteenth and the next, are you not concerned about committing yourself prematurely?”

Thranduil shook his head. “As I said, I have given this matter a great deal of thought. However, I realise now that I have perhaps not offered you the same opportunity. Would you perhaps accompany me to dinner this evening, and perhaps consider my suggestion further?”

Bard nodded. “But if I might choose the location,” he said. “Since I’ve seen where you choose to take your dates, and Alfrid is on shift tonight.”

Thranduil laughed. “It was your company that prompted such a selection,” he confessed, “I was unwilling to choose between passing the day in the company of my date, or in yours. By all means, it may be your choice.”

Bard smiled. “Will you stay until then, or have you other business?”

Thranduil paused. “I would not monopolize your time,” he said, “I think it best that we both proceed with our afternoons, and I might pick you up later.”

Bard nodded, following Thranduil to the door. “Does seven work?” he said. Thranduil nodded.

Thranduil stepped out of the door, and on a wild impulse Bard caught a hold of his sleeve, tipping his head up to press his mouth to Thranduil’s. It was chaste kiss, barely a second’s brush of lips, but it send a spark down his spine nevertheless.

He stepped back. There was something in Thranduil’s gaze that made him wonder if the idea of them spending next February fourteenth together was really such stretch at all.

“I’ll see you at seven,” he said, in lieu of blurting out something reckless.

Thranduil smiled, Bard’s heart raced.


End file.
